Tag: motherhood

Now That You’ve Touched Eternity

February 26, 2019 / / 0 Comments

I think of you when the clouds turn grey and swell; when the rain and my tears mix softening the sting of salt on my cheeks. I think of you when I break into a new bale of sweet smelling hay; and when the sun sets, revealing cotton-candy strokes of color that God uses when He paints the sky. When I find new life on the homestead, I think of you then too in the stillness and in awe of little miracles.  I feel you near when the steady hum of the bees surrounds me.  Sometimes I think everything I need to know about life is right outside my door. You and Grandaddy taught me that.

I wonder if things would different between us, now that you’ve touched eternity; if you’d watch the waves lap lazily along the shore, wishing you could still fuss at me. “Sit in the shade, Ash” falling on deaf ears while I bask in the serenity of a sun-filled sky.  My reddened body later lying in miserable, defiant regret.

I wonder if you’d be proud of me. If you’d see how motherhood is transforming me; a human metamorphosis.  Do caterpillars feel this kind of pain too, when they grow through change? I wonder if you share the stories of my childhood with angels; if you tell them about the mom I would pretend to be back then, and of the one that I’m becoming.  I can hear you saying “she has a lot on her plate” over coffee and crumb cake.

With forever in your back pocket, would you tell me to slow down? “The very hairs on your head are numbered, Ash.”  I hear you whisper “soften” in my mind when the busyness and chaos take over and my emotions rage. I wonder if you’d put your hand on mine and say “don’t be ugly” when I lose my patience entirely.  Would you tell me to keep my eyes on the seasons? “In the winter the earth rests, and so should you.” I know my time here is limited, there’s just so much to be done.

I wonder what you’d think of this life I’ve built around all you taught me.  If you know that I’m living it to honor you, and keep your memory alive.  I wonder if you’d tell me to keep working at it; if you know the dreams of my heart and if you can see the words I bleed onto paper.  I wonder if you’d read my writing the way you used to read the paper every morning, out loud and to anyone who would listen, if you were still here.

I wonder if you can hear my prayers and wish I would do more of that.  I hope you can still see me, and that I make you proud.

How To Let Go

July 23, 2017 / / 0 Comments

As I peered down into the disaster strewn across the floor and down the stairs, the books began to distort.  Tears came quickly making the mess before me warp and writhe.  It had finally happened.  That cheap, old bookshelf collapsed after an adolescence and adulthood of knowledge and memories had been piled to the brim of each sagging shelf.

I got it from her.  Nanny is a hoarder of sorts.  She’s always held onto things.

Shortly after my eighteenth birthday I found a tiny apartment and was ready to move out on own.  On a small tattered piece of piece of junk mail tossed carelessly on a desk in the loft of Nanny’s old townhome was my handwritten budget.

Rent: $425

Electricity: $25

Phone: $50

Grocery: $50

          Next to my ridiculously naïve expected living expenses she had beautifully penned a farewell note. “HAHA!  Good luck!”

The evening before I came home from jogging to a frantic, frustrated and worried Nan.  It was getting dark out and I hadn’t left a message or let her know where I was.  “Ashley, where have you been!?  I was worried sick.  You can’t just run off without telling me where you’re going.  What if something happened to you?”  In true self-centered teenage fashion I jabbed at her with “UGH, I can’t wait to move out of here.”  I watched those words inflict the pain I intended them to and then stormed off.

Whenever I was faced with something new and unfamiliar, before I ever found my footing, it was Nanny I looked to for guidance and security.  That first night alone in my new apartment she called me.  “Ash are you alright?  Do you need anything?  I just wanted to check on you….”  I was so grateful for that phone call, both for the forgiveness it implied and the comfort it offered.

As the years passed by, anytime I ever needed anything it was Nan I called.   I remember when my toaster broke and she said “Come on over, I’m sure I have an extra somewhere.”  Turns out she had three to choose from.  I began to notice how she held onto things almost just waiting to give either her grace or the perfect item to remedy a hardship.  It was how she let go.

A lifetime of memories flashed by as I began to sort through that pile of books, each one a reminder of an earlier time in life.  Some made me think of God’s mercy and my reckless college days, and some of home and Nanny and of comfort.  I’ll box a few of these books up and donate them.  And some of those really special ones; the ones etched into my soul that molded and changed me, I’ll hang onto for the perfect moment in time when I can help someone with them.

Today I’m learning to let go of her and that’s an entirely different kind of letting go.  Alzheimer’s is taking her from me one day at the time.  But I will always be grateful for the lessons she taught me.  Because of her I’ll look for ways to offer forgiveness even when it’s not deserved and I’ll hang onto everything just like she did, until letting it go blesses someone else, more than holding on ever could.

 

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